Angel
by MrsNoggin
Summary: John is an angel. That can be the only explanation. A response to the challenging request for a realistic wingfic one-shot. Rated T for language.


**_Ok, I am the first to admit, wingfics are odd things. I'm not sure if I like them or not... probably leaning towards not. However, I like challenges. So when someone (who shall by request remain anonymous) asks me to write them a realistic wingfic one-shot, I happily accept the challenge. And here it is!_**

_DISCLAIMER: I own no one, nothing, not even the wings. I make nothing but satisfaction from writing these stories. _

_**A.N. **Chromesthesia is an actual medical phenomenon - quite common actually, though with many different forms. A friend of mine possesses this unique ability in the form of seeing speech clouds, as described. No offence intended at all - I think it's rather marvellous._

_**Now with the cutest Fan Art Illustration by MLC! **(link on my profile)_ _**and cover pic by Jack63kids, both genius writers too! **__  
_

* * *

John is an angel. There is no other explanation.

Sherlock is a man ruled by logic. He feels emotions, _obviously_, but overrules them to obey reason. He is well aware of his various conditions, not least of all the Chromesthesia. To his sensitive ears every voice has a colour. He learned as a child not to let it bother him, though he occasionally accidentally allows it to influence his deductions of character. The interpretation of colour is instinctive, and instinct can be wrong. Ergo it is less than an exact science and he does not trust it.

Standing in the laboratory at St Bart's he had heard John's approach, and was not in the least curious. Until he heard him speak. The swirls of pearlescent colour rose and drifted around him, and oddly enough did not fade and dissipate into the air, as they should have done, but they curled up and over his shoulders in the distinct form of green-gold wings. Sherlock couldn't help the look of surprise on his face, or the quick glance at Mike (_orange-beige_) to see if he could see anything out of the ordinary. It was an action that hadn't slipped out in years. Checking another's reaction to something only he could see. And it annoyed him.

These days Sherlock is more accustomed to the sight, and on occasions turns specifically for the reassurance of its presence. Sometimes it even takes his breath away. Standing on the edge of a tall building, smiling exhaustedly at Sherlock after a chase through the alleys of and rooftops of London, John says something, but Sherlock misses it completely, distracted by the bloom of dark gold wings unfurling behind him as his voice reaches across the distance. The shapes unfurl, as if stretching before flight. John asks a question, possibly enquiring why he is not listening, but the pale green twists of his words shimmer into shape at his sides, filling in the outline.

Sherlock decides then, John is an angel. There can be no other possibility. He has performed examinations and tests on his mind enough to know there is very little wrong with it; it functions higher than most, albeit working very differently. Just because no one else can see the wings does not mean they are not there.

.oOo.

Lestrade's voice is blue. Whether or not that is a reflection on his personality Sherlock cannot quite say. His words, like everyone else's uncurl and fade into the room. And they do _not_ shimmer. When John replies, Sherlock is caught in the watching again and both men pick up on it, frowning to each other.

"Sherlock?" Cerulean whorls across the room.

"Nothing."

"What's the matter?" Just as the wings had faded to nothing after his conversation with Greg, he speaks again and they reform behind him, stretching from his shoulders, curving around behind his arms and disappearing again.

Sherlock does not reply. What can he say? '_I'm just looking at your wings, John.'_ Exactly. "Just thinking."

.oOo.

Most of the time when John speaks his green-gold hue just drifts and rests behind him, as if his extra limbs are folded casually. They fidget with concerns, stretch with his yawns, and when he is angry they are glorious – extended and full like a religious renaissance painting.

Sherlock can keep secrets, although it's more difficult with John, and a lot more difficult when he is drugged. Under the influence of a mild (ok, not so mild) hallucinogenic that he has accidentally ingested during an experiment with rare funghi, Sherlock cannot only see the wings, he can touch them.

John, as always, is patient and he stands still at his request. He does not question as Sherlock, quite clearly high as a kite, circles him slowly.

"Talk to me." He commands.

"About what?"

Sherlock gasps in wonder – there they are. Curls of light swirling out from his shoulders, as if from the vibrations of his chest. They are not the wings of a bird, anatomically Sherlock is fairly sure John would never gain flight from them, even were they solid, but good God, any god anywhere that might possibly exist, they are stunning. He reaches out a tentative hand and touches, ever so gently. The thin cloud of light shifts away, shying from his fingertips.

"What are you doing?" John asks. The image shimmers with new colour, thickening the slowly fading outlines. "What are you looking at?"

"Your wings."

John laughs then, and they flap and undulate with his chuckles. "You lunatic."

"I knew you'd say that. Keep talking." The more words he can get from him, the longer they will stay there. The more he can learn about them.

John does not mention it later that evening, when he finally sobers up. He probably thinks it was a product of Sherlock's accident with the mushrooms. He just helps him to bed and doses him up with painkillers for the headache. John is an angel.

.oOo.

It's the reason Sherlock has to have rooms clear of people when he is thinking hard. He can't have their voices and the colours of their words drifting into his brain when he is trying to pinpoint and pull something out of it. He rarely has to ask John to be quiet, he seems to understand, though they have never spoken of it.

This time, though, John is so tired that he doesn't even notice he is mumbling to himself. Sherlock is desperately trying to place the evidence offered from the traces of a footprint in with the rest of the facts. The case is important, a computer programmer's family at risk. He needs to work out if the specifics are relevant, but he can't because John is grumbling and the shape of his damned wings are blooming behind Sherlock's closed eyelids. Finally, after two huffs and a 'sshh' are ignored he snaps.

"John, will you _please_ shut up, your wings are distracting me!"

"I'm not saying anything!"

"You are complaining to yourself. I can hear it from here."

"My _wings_?!"

Shit. Did he really say that? Sherlock Holmes rarely makes mistakes, especially not with his words. In fact the things he says and the way he says them are often more relevant than points he may be discussing. But that was a _major_ slip-up.

"Quiet!"

John obeys, but they both know as soon as he is finished this subject will be raised immediately.

They are both right. After his phonecall to Lestrade relaying his deduced information John corners him in the kitchen.

"Wings? Are you high?"

"I am perfectly sober."

John peers into his eyes, assessing pupil size and reaction, "Then what are you talking about wings?"

Sherlock sighs. He probably has some kind of a right to know, which is tiresome. Even if they are a production of Sherlock's complex brain, they belong, at least in part, to John. He kicks out a chair for John at the table and sits at the other side. And then he explains. About chromesthesia (which, as a medical professional, John already knows of, of course), of colours and voices. The tests he has put himself through. The unreliability of digital recordings supplying just a twinge of shade. The instinct to deduce from the colours and the effort not to. And John nods, listens, maybe even understands. But he does not talk, because he knows now, instantly, how distracting his voice must be.

"They are easily ignored with enough self-discipline and time. Except yours. Yours take longer to fade. They do not radiate from you, following your soundwaves into the room, they cling to you. Swirl about you. Form shapes and move."

"Wings?" And as if he called them they are there, curling over his shoulders. He watches curiously as Sherlock's eyes follow the movement.

"I know, it sounds ridiculous. It _is_ ridiculous. Don't you think I know that?"

John shakes his head, it is not ridiculous to him, it is marvellous. "What kind of wings? Like a bird? Or an insect?"

"Like an angel."

John is an angel.


End file.
